Page 54 of Turncloak

At the mention of Alucia, Levan saw crimson.

He strode across the room toward Segal, wand outstretched, jamming it beneath Segal’s chin and shoving upward. “The next time you question me, I’ll have your head. You will beg for mercy, and there will be none. Because mercy is a weakness, is it not?” He jerked his head toward Relar Zamorin. “Now, unshackle him.”

In the few beats of ragged breath before he released the hateful-eyed Segal, the tip of his black elm wand crackled.

“Et vocos, Levan Celadon,” came a breathless female voice.

Castian.

Castian, who he’d ordered to follow Saffron.

Levan wrenched his wand away from Segal’s throat.

“Yes? What is it?”

“Silver is hurt. Badly.”

“What—”

“Stabbed, bleeding out. Saints, I…I think she’s going to die.”

27

• • • •

Fifteen Years Ago

When the boy from the woods was six years old, two Bloodmoons died on a heist, and Lorissa Rezaran narrowly escaped with her life.

The night of the funeral—grim pyre still smoking, though there had not been much left of their bodies to burn, let alone turn into jewels—the boy from the woods overheard his mother and father talking over steaming cups of spiked ambertea.

“…can’t help but think that if I’d had a better weaverwick, I might have been able to wind back the clock further,” Lorissa murmured, almost inaudible over the howling gale outside. The wind blew the scent of charred flesh through the cracks in the windowpanes. “To before we even started the raid.”

Lyrian shifted in his creaky chair. “You think you’re only able to weave for a few minutes at a time because the wand isn’t strong enough?”

A short, terrible silence. “Are you calling my own power into question?”

“No, my love. No, of course not.”

“Because if you’re doubting me, Lyrian—”

“Never. I have never doubted you for a moment. One day, I will be the king to your queen. I believe that with my full chest.”

The second silence was less perilous, but still charged with something raw and expectant.

“I’ve heard a rumor,” Lorissa said. “A rich courtier has a weaverwick wand stored in a private bank vault in Almere. An old family heirloom her ancestors refused to give up during the Great Purge. I’ve been looking into the bank’s security measures, and—”

“My love—a major bank?” Lyrian sounded aghast. “Perhaps a small, family-run institute in Lunes or Sorvel, but Almere is Bellandry’s second city. Their defenses will be great. We cannot afford to lose more mages. The ashes of our recent fallen are still warm, and already—”

“Very well.” The chair legs scraped along the floor as Lorissa stood. “I’ll go alone.”

Lyrian did not argue any further. Even the boy from the woods, tucked snugly in the bed next to his older brother, sensed the finality in the words, in his mother’s indomitable will.

Well—almost indomitable.

The next night, Lorissa Rezaran made good on her promise.

The boy from the woods, eternally restless, followed.